


Nothing Rhymes With Aziraphale

by DaniGetYourGun (SharkbaitHooHaHa)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-10-13 12:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkbaitHooHaHa/pseuds/DaniGetYourGun
Summary: Crowley starts writing poems and hopes that Aziraphale might realize they're about him.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley took to writing when the moments without Aziraphale seemed to stretch into infinity. There was something about the repetitive scratch of the quill against the parchment that seemed to calm him; maybe it was just the way it seemed to drown out the part of him that had (unforgivably) learned to miss someone.

At first, he was just writing down his thoughts, not bothering with any sort of organization. It was just a way to silence the part of his mind that always managed to drift to the angel.

But then he discovered poetry. It wasn’t the art itself that drew him to the craft, but rather the way Aziraphale had smiled when he had shown off his latest acquisition. And, _oh_, his _voice_, the way it seemed to flow with the words when he read a sample to him aloud. It reminded him of the way the universe had sang when it was born.

He thought, maybe, if he could imagine Aziraphale’s voice caressing his own thoughts in such a way, it might alleviate the ache in his soul, just a bit.

_My love is the horizon,_  
_Where blue sky meets the Earth._  
_Forever in my sight,  
_ _But never mine to hold._

It was simple, and it didn’t rhyme, but it said more with four lines than Crowley would ever be able to express out loud, and wasn’t that the point?

So, he kept at it. Whenever that certain piece of his heart felt the loss of Aziraphale’s presence, whenever visions of a bright smile and the sweetest eyes became too much, he’d write down a couple lines, and it brought him a brief sense of peace.

And things were fine that way, until they weren’t.

It happened when they were at lunch. Crowley was rearranging the meal on his plate into complicated patterns and shapes, (moving it around and around so it seemed that he was doing something with it, so it seemed that food were the reason he were here, it was an act and one he played well) when Aziraphale pulled out a thin little book, that its cover claimed was a collection of poetry ‘lost to time and memory’ whatever that meant.

“Crowley, dear, listen to this,” Aziraphale said. Then he cleared his throat and began to read.

“_By your presence, I am come undone.  
__By your absence, I am torn asunder._

_Free me or keep me,  
__What difference could it make?_”

Crowley stopped listening. The words. He knew the words. He had written the words. But how?

Someone must have found one of his poems and, presuming the author to be long dead, had it published.

Crowley came back to himself just to realize that Aziraphale was expecting some kind of response from him. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered at his plate. “Very nice.”

Aziraphale looked affronted. “_Nice_?!” he echoed. “It’s _terrible_!”

Crowley cringed. He knew he was an amateur, but 'terrible’ seemed a little harsh. “Oh, yeah,” he agreed anyway. “It’s rubbish.”

Now Aziraphale looked offended for some reason. What did he want from him? “It’s beautiful!” the angel declared.

Crowley blinked. “But you said-”

“It’s _heartbreaking_! The writer loves this person so much it’s consumed them entirely. It’s- It’s- Don’t you know how that _feels_?”

And Aziraphale was looking at him now, a hopeless desperation in those beautiful eyes. But how could Crowley possibly answer that question?

The truth was, he _didn’t_ know how it felt, not the way it was written in the poem. It had always been one of his biggest shortcomings, he thought. Try as he might, no matter what words he used, no matter the grandiosity of the metaphors, it was never enough. His feelings could never quite be put to paper. Not in any way that mattered.

“Erm…” he said instead, and Aziraphale’s face fell.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“’S fine,” Crowley mumbled, because his mind was still reeling, and the conversation drifted back to whatever they had been discussing before.

From then on, Crowley was utterly lost. He had written the poems imagining them being read by Aziraphale, but now that he had actually witnessed it, had an actual taste, he became like a man possessed.

Poem after poem poured out of him. Knowing that Aziraphale could read his words, could be _moved_ by them, was intoxicating. If he could just get the pages to match what he felt, then maybe, _maybe_ he had a chance.

_I walked the halls of heaven_  
_So very long ago_  
_I stood within the Presence  
_ _I lived with grace bestowed_

_And though it’s true I fell_  
_Into darkness from the bright_  
_On this loss I do not dwell  
_ _For you keep my soul alight_

_And there isn’t any question_  
_Believe me, yes it’s true_  
_All the glory that is heaven  
_ _Is nothing next to you_

He started gifting his poems to Aziraphale. Not in person, of course, but he’d slide them through his mail slot, he’d tuck them between two books on the shelves in Aziraphale’s shop, he left them anywhere the angel might find them and hoped that he’d know they were for him.

_I bend my knees in worship._  
_I lift my hands in prayer._  
_I cry out before your altar,  
_ _But you never seem to hear._

He didn’t even know if Aziraphale found them all. But this was all he could do.

_My true love is an angel,_  
_So perfectly divine_  
_I spend my days in worship,  
_ _Kneeling before his shrine_

_My true love is an angel_  
_Wrapped in heaven’s sweet embrace_  
_I’d give my all to serve him  
_ _And be worthy of his grace_

_My true is an angel_  
_And for this blasphemy I crawl_  
_Yet I surely cannot conceive of  
_ _Any sweeter way to fall._

And then he was handed the Antichrist. And what good were words when faced with the end?

He stopped writing and focused entirely on just keeping Aziraphale by his side. He could live with Aziraphale never knowing of his feelings so long as things could remain as they were.

So, when they did the impossible, when they _stopped_ the _apocalypse_, he decided to be thankful for what he had, and shoved all those feelings deep, deep down, resigned to never wanting more. He could spend more time with Aziraphale, now, without either of them having to check over their shoulder, and wasn’t that enough?

Wasn’t it?

No.

But if lied to himself enough, maybe he could start to believe it was true.

Until Aziraphale, with that same determined look on his face that he had gotten when he decided he was going to learn close-up magic, sat him down on the couch in the back of the bookshop and stood before him, wringing his hands nervously.

“Crowley, I need to read you something, and you have to promise not to laugh.”

Crowley blinked. “Okay?”

“You have to _promise_!”

“Okay, I promise!”

“And- And could you take off your sunglasses?”

“What?”

“_Please_, Crowley, I really need-”

“Okay, okay!” Crowley did. “Better?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale frowned. “Actually, no, it’s much worse, now I can see what you’re thinking, put them back on.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “_Angel_!”

“Alright, alright!” With shaking hands, Aziraphale reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his reading glasses, which they both knew he didn’t actually need, but Crowley decided to let that fact go for now. After he had situated them on the end of his nose, he reached into his waistcoat and procured a worn sheet of paper. His fingers trembled as he unfolded it and began to read:

“_I fear the way I love you,  
__It’s too much for me to bear._

_I fear the way I love you,  
_ _It hurts how much I care._

_I fear the way I love you,  
_ _Your presence is all I crave._

_I fear the way I love you,  
__But, now I’m ready to be brave._”

Crowley wasn’t sure what to say. It had been a while since Aziraphale had shared his favorite poems with him, and he couldn’t quite remember how this was supposed to work.

“It’s lovely,” he said.

“You think so?” Aziraphale asked hopefully, suddenly looking a little less terrified. “It’s not as good as yours, of course, but I thought I did pretty well.”

Crowley’s mind blanked. “Mine?” His voice may have squeaked, but he couldn’t be sure over the pounding in his ears.

“Well, yes. They were yours, weren’t they?”

Should he deny it? No. He was done hiding. “Yes.”

Aziraphale looked… relieved. And that was when Crowley’s mind caught up to the second thing Aziraphale had said. “You wrote that poem?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“For me?”

Aziraphale nodded again. “Like I said, it’s not much, compar- you _promised you wouldn’t laugh!_”

But Crowley couldn’t help himself. The joy and love bubbled out of him in such a way that had to be given form, and laughter seemed to be it. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, though, once Crowley swept him into his arms and pressed their lips together.

And this? _This_ was _poetry_.


	2. Follow Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually mean to write a follow-up, it just sort of... happened.

His love was like being on fire, flames licking hungrily at his skin. It was like being pulled under, the tide dragging him away from shore. It was burning and drowning simultaneously, and he _craved_ it, the-

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice called him from his musings. “Are you waxing poetic in your head, again?”

Crowley balked at the suggestion. “I do not ‘waxss poetic,’ Angel!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Then tell me, dearest, what were you thinking about?”

Crowley crossed his arms and pouted. “I was thinking…” He belatedly remembered that Aziraphale thought he was _cute_ when he was sulking and uncrossed his arms, though the pout remained. “…Demonic thoughts.”

“I see.” Aziraphale didn’t sound convinced. “Darling, may I read you something?”

Crowley blinked. “Er… sure?”

Aziraphale drew a folded up piece of paper from his breast pocked. Crowley recognized it instantly. “Oh no. Nonono, no. No! Why do you have that in your pocket?”

“I keep it close to my heart,” Aziraphale said, sounding far too smug for someone who had just admitted to something so sentimental, in Crowley’s personal opinion.

“Sssap,” he muttered.

“Of the two of us, who is the _real_ sap, here?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ssshut up!”

Aziraphale began to read. “‘_I walked the halls of Heaven, so very long ago, I stood within the Presence_-’ Nah-ah-ah-ah!” Aziraphale scolded as Crowley tried to snatch the paper away. He continued, “_’I lived with grace bestowed. And though it’s true I fell, into_-’ Darling, _really, _I’m trying to read!”

Aziraphale held the paper higher, out of Crowley’s reach. “’_Into darkness from the bright, on this loss I do not dwell, for you keep_-’ Crowley!” 

Crowley stretched across the couch and wound up half in Aziraphale’s lap as he waved his hand around uselessly over the edge of the armrest, trying to reach the paper in Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.

Aziraphale kept going, this time from memory. “’_You keep my soul alight. And there isn’t any question, believe me, yes it’s true, all the glory that is-’ _Oh, for heaven’s sake_._”

This time Aziraphale miracled the paper to someplace safer as Crowley straddled him to get a better reach. “’_All the glory that is heaven, is nothing next to you,_’” he finished, beaming up at Crowley.

Crowley didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was sulking this time. Stupid, beautiful, smug, wonderful, bastard of an angel.

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Oh, good, it worked,” he said, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist.

“What?”

“I got you right where I want you.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s head down to kiss him soundly, and if Crowley were to wax poetic about it (he wouldn’t) he would have called the kiss divine.


End file.
